racetrack knows you wank

FIC: Never Forgive, Never Forget

2009-11-10T19:28:39Z

Who: Nora Alderton
When: About three years from FTH-verse
Where: Robards-Alderton home in... fuck if I know.
What: I picked a prompt for this. 5. never forgive, never forget and stuck it on there. Alas, poor Nora, you get to deal with your Auror boyfriend's sudden death.
Rating:PG

It was nearly a month before Nora could bring herself to pass the threshold into Gawain's office. What had been his office. It was only hers now. She shut the door behind her quickly, afraid to lose even a fraction of whatever was left of Gawain Robards in this room.

The moment she was inside, Nora was flooded with every single scent she associated with him: pipe smoke, wood finish, those little peppermints he chomped on in lieu of real food when he was particularly engrossed in something - be it a miniature curio or pouring over bulletins from work - and didn't want to be disturbed by eating, lime (which might have more to do with her own shampoo than his), Earl Grey, and starch. She used to tease him for his overly pressed suits, and she couldn't even remember now many times she spotted him unbuttoning the top button or loosening his tie in an effort to appear not quite so stilted. At least when it was the just the two of them.

One of his sweaters - "old man jumpers" she'd always called them - hung on the back of his workshop desk. Nora removed it carefully, as if the very act of touching it might cause it to dissolve between her fingers. She pulled it over one arm, then the other, pausing in between when she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. The chair was cold from disuse, and the little lamp near the magnifying glass took exactly two seconds before the light actually switched on.

When they'd moved from the flat in London to this house in the country, Nora had joked that this was the only room he'd be allowed to decorate. He'd put up his old film noir posters, and there was something dishevelled and disorderly about the room even though everything was in its proper place. Alan Ladd watched out of the corner of his eye, holding a gun up. Veronica Lake glanced down morosely. Humphrey Bogart's hat was pulled down near one eye. Mary Astor played innocent. All of these were leftovers from bachelorhood.

The window in front of the work desk overlooked the tiny garden Nora had insisted they needed to liven up the yard. When the weather permitted, Nora poked and prodded the dirt, and more often than not, in those days, Gawain found himself watching her rather than his miniatures. His eyes would drift to the blank wall beside the window, and after one too many times of noticing its emptiness, he hung a photograph there.

Her mother had taken the photograph of the pair of them during their first Christmas together. He was abnormally against displaying photographs of himself, he said. He'd often found himself caught off-guard that he was no longer the skinny, knobby-kneed boy he had once been. But he liked this one because it was one of the first Christmases he could remember having enjoyed, despite the awkwardness of his much younger girlfriend's even younger brother. He also liked this particular photograph because it surprised him every time that Nora was looking at him like there was no one else in the world for her. That wasn't a feeling he was likely to forget.

In the present, Nora pulled the baggy sweater tighter across her shoulders, buttoned the top button, and leaned her elbows on his desk gingerly. Memories of arguments came flooding back. "You care more about your miniatures and your job than you do me!" "You care more about Quidditch than anything else." "You didn't even send me a message or an owl that you wouldn't be there!" "I waited for you, Nora." It was this one in particular that set off the empty, aching pit inside her. Nora cradled her head in her arms against the desk, shaking with the sheer force of her tears.

"I take it all back! I didn't mean any of it! Just bring him back, please," she sobbed desperately to anyone who would listen. "Please. I promise not to - it should have been m - It's not fair." And though she had no right to complain - she'd had three good years with him which was more than some people got - and that it wasn't fair when anyone was snatched away so quickly, she couldn't bring herself to feel any worse for her selfish request. There was no going any lower; she was already at the bottom of that well.

Nora waited for nearly an hour for an answer, but none came. The shadows began to stretch outside, and soon the desk lamp was the only light burning in the entire house. She forced herself to sit up straight. Gawain might be upset if he came home to find her hair sticking in the painted miniatures, and how would she explain it?

Easy, she thought. She could repaint them. That was a good idea. A brilliant one, actually. She opened the drawers of the desk, pulling out tubes of paint, little vials of varnish, brushes, and a box of - well, she didn't have any clue - but she supposed there was minuscule things that he thought would be better kept in a box so they wouldn't get lost. The box was scratched and dented with paint smears, obviously something he used for storage. Sure enough, inside there were miniature mirror pieces, dainty likeness of books and food and toiletries.

And a box that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than what it was: a jewellery box.

It wasn't the one she'd found along with a fitted wedding band several months after they started dating. That one had belonged to another woman who had broken his heart, and because of that woman, Nora never thought she'd see one of these so long as she continued to date Gawain. She honestly didn't mind at all. She didn't need to be legally tied to him. In fact, it went against (almost) everything the staunch feminist inside her insisted. That woman didn't seem to matter anymore, though, so Nora ignored her and opened the box anyway.

Yes, there was a gorgeous ring inside that somehow captured Nora's Bohemian style, but it was the note that fell out onto the floor that captured her attention. It had been folded up until it was nearly the size of a pea, and it took Nora a few seconds to spot it between her feet.

Snooping ruins the element of surprise. I am, however, willing to forgive your invasion of my privacy if you say yes.

Actually, forget what I said about ruined surprises. That's a load of bollocks.

If your answer is yes, leave this box and this note on this desk. If it's no, fold this note back up, shove it back in the box, forget about it, and never speak of this to me. Ever.

Everything about this situation was wrong. Had Gawain lived, she never would have come in here to do anything than a dusting. There would be no snooping, and he might think that her answer would have been contrary. How long would this have sit in his drawer? How strained might their relationship become if he thought she didn't want to marry him? Did he have some sort of back-up plan for this as he had for everything else?

Eventually, she knew she had to stop looking at this portent of some future that would never happen. But she couldn't bring herself to. Not until she set everything out on his desk and under the magnifying lens as if he wouldn't see them plain as day. She artfully arranged the box and note, but not before slipping the ring onto her finger. Through the glass, Nora made sure the word YES was amplified prominently before she stood up and turned out the light. He was sure to get her message.

In the overwhelming darkness, it was easy to pretend he'd come home at any moment. It was easy to imagine his arms around her, to hear his voice whisper her name. It was comforting to pretend that his hand were brushing her hair from her cheek. Easy to swallow the slightly embarrassed guilt at his mock chastising for prying while he softly kissed her finger below the ring.

Except she knew that come the harsh light of morning, there'd be no forgiving her, and she would never be able to forget.

I suck at titles.

2009-09-20T06:10:02Z

Who: Charity & Doc Dearborn
When: 1975
Where: Dorchester, Dorset
What: Charity contemplates what to do about her marriage and her childless future. Requested by lupinesque in the ANGST MEME.
Rating: PG

Wednesday, 22nd October 1975.

Late autumn rained on south Dorchester's heart for weeks. Most townsman knew to expect the market to pull itself indoors when the weather was like this. The rain got under skin like the cold in Dorset never could. It drove its youngest citizens to torment its elders with whining, and while all the parents grit their teeth and put their foot down, it sounded like music to Charity Dearborn's ears, and still, she stood beneath an awning across the street from the house she shared with her husband.

For two years, she suffered disappointments. Every night, she went to bed with visions of dance recitals, changing nappies, the Tooth Fairy, and split peas behaving as an airplane in a spoon. But every month, she was shredded and torn, trying to put the failures -- her failures -- aside when the pregnancy test came up negative. Doc would rub her back and tell her they could try something else. She'd cry and hold onto him, but there was always hope.

And then, hope abandoned her. The knowledge that she'd never have to come up with creative ways to placate a child ached inside of her. Healers could find no reason why she couldn't get pregnant; it just wasn't happening. Every day, she wondered what use she was - to the world, to her family - if she couldn't do the one thing a woman should be able to do. It never had taken much convincing to believe herself damaged goods, and she excelled at pointing fingers at herself. Her own mother had stopped asking when she was going to get grandchildren.

As months turned to years, co-workers and friends announced pregnancies and baby showers and births. And then they began to say things like, "I'm so jealous of your freedom -- must be nice not to have all the responsibility of kids, to not be tied down." Or "See? It's not so bad that you can't have kids; look at all the travel you can do!" And all the while, they basked in their children's adoration. Meanwhile, Charity thought it must be nice never having to think about the alternative.

They say that no parent should ever have to bury a child, but what of all the children never born? What about all the dreams she'd had to bury? Didn't they count?

Usually polite and mostly forgiving, Charity Dearborn's patience and kindness was tried time and again for these past eight months. Doc's quiet unnerved her, and for once, she could no longer sense what he was thinking. Every look seemed to bore a hole, right down to the broken centre of her. There were other options, Doc insisted. Adoption, surrogates, Muggle drugs and surgeries. Advancements were made every day, after all. For that matter, magic opened a whole new venue of options. They shouldn't give up hope yet, and, he pointed out in that frustratingly calm voice of his, that Amos Diggory's parents thought they couldn't have children, and see how well that turned out?

Of course he would say that. No matter the harsh things she'd said to him these past few months, she knew that he would still do anything for her. Charity had always thought that he was too good for her. She'd never deserved his kind of unwavering devotion, and she was certain that one day, he'd realise it, too. He'd snap out of it, and resentment would follow. Her own pitiful self-loathing was one thing to endure, but Doc's animosity would kill her, and the idea that he could be happy and fulfilled with someone who could give him everything he wanted drove her away.

Misery had begun to set in, and in the fathomless rain, Charity held a set of papers that would fix everything but her broken heart. All she needed now was the courage to let him go.

Fic: Lavender & Someone in the afterlife

2008-01-03T20:54:17Z

Characters: Lavender Brown & ...?
Summary: Lavender isn't sure who would be waiting for her.
Rating: PG. Maybe. Just to be safe.

By the end, she'd watched nearly everyone she knew die. Sometimes, it was only dream death, in her head. It had finally been too much for her, and Susan Bones had been the lucky recipient of Lavender's cowardice. The blast that took her life had altered the outcome very little, and it was possible that she'd only spared Susan for a few moments, but it was enough for Lavender.

There hadn't been any pain, for which she had been thankful for. Lavender could barely stand a too-hard tug on her hairbrush, let alone anything more permanent. But the truth was that she had no idea who, if anyone, would have been waiting for her in the afterlife.

The station was empty. There wasn't even a train yet, or perhaps one had just departed. She had Seen Simon's death only a short time before her own. She thought it might be possible that there was only one train running, but with the state of things, there really ought to be several. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Oliver, Simon, Padma, Parvati... The list was too enormous, daunting to even ponder.

As she stood waiting, Lavender closed her eyes. Faint footsteps preceded a breeze that fluttered through the station, and with it came the scent of freshly cut grass and wood -- specifically broom wood. She remembered flying lessons at Hogwarts, every single time she had to borrow a broom, painting her face for Gryffindor Quidditch matches, and --

"Oliver!"

She spun around, only for him to catch her in his arms immediately. Lavender tried not to laugh, but the happiness was too great, and the knowledge that Oliver had been waiting for her when he could have waited for anyone else in the world set her free. There was no pain anymore, and even when she thought of her previous life, she couldn't feel any remorse or guilt or worry for anything that happened. A giant weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and she thought she could fly.

His arms should have been crushing her, but the tighter her held her, the happier -- elated even -- she felt.

"I didn't mean to be late," he beseeched her quietly, kissing the side of her face over and over again. "You weren't scheduled to be here for a while."

"You couldn't have known," Lavender whispered in return, resting her forehead against his. She could taste salt on her lips, and realised she must be crying. Oliver cupped her face with his large hands, his thumbs wiping away the tears.

"But you did, didn't you?"

Oliver had never quite believed in her Sight, but he'd always been fairly silent on it, choosing to be there for her during the episodes, even when she awoke from the blood bath of a nightmare that prefaced You-Know-Who's return. "...yes."

"Lavender, I'm sorry..." he pleaded, catching her gaze and not letting go. "I'm sorry I didn't believe--"

"Don't be daft," she laughed. "I didn't even believe me. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"Yes, I do. I should have told you that I loved you. I should have told you every day."

Lavender took his hands, tilting her face to him and kissed him softly. "We have all of eternity to make up for it now."

Fic: Fleur and Bill Weasley (Post-Apocalyptic)

2008-01-03T20:54:16Z

Characters: Fleur, Bill, Gabrielle -- mentions of all the Weasleys as well as other Order members
Summary: Bill and Fleur are the last of the Weasleys left, but not for very long.
Rating: R -- there's just some really terrible bad images

At the 1994 Quidditch World Cup, wizards got a taste of a Veela's power. They could strike a man dumb just by entering a room, and if angrily provoked, they had a tendency to throw fire at their victims. All in all, it was a nifty power to have. Fleur Weasley had vague recollections of being lusted after. She could dimly remember someone slapping a table and repeating what she'd said only seconds prior. Boys blushed and stammered, girls sneered with jealousy.

All of the Weasleys had gone into hiding when little Sophie Weasley was torn apart, save Hestia. Hestia couldn't bare the pain, and Charlie had been unable to stop her. The witch had run head-first into Death Eater territory -- what wasn't Death Eater territory these days? -- and the end hadn't come easy. Charlie's denial grew less and less and his anger rose with each body part he received in the post. At first, it was easy to pretend the long fingers weren't his wife's, but by the time her torso arrived, he had to pretend that the breasts didn't belong to his wife. When her head showed up, neatly wrapped with a perfect expression of pain etched on her plain face, Charlie had nothing left to lose.

They found Arthur some time after Charlie's last stand, a rampage that took out five Death Eaters (and himself) and gave some hope to the stragglers left behind.

But then Ron and Harry and Hermione disappeared one night. Everyone hoped they'd gone on whatever search they'd managed last time, and once and for all You Know Who would be vanquished. All hope crumbled when three bodies were displayed with permanent embalming charms in front of the Ministry of Magic.

Then Molly and Ginny vanished.

The twins.

Percy and Penelope.

Even the Weasley's Muggle tax barrister cousin.

Soon, it was just Gabrielle, Bill, Fleur, and their unborn daughter. They crossed the channel by Muggle boat as a way to escape the Voldemort-controlled Ministry, but Bill wasn't so certain that they hadn't been followed somehow. They hadn't used any magic in months so there could be no Trace. But his fears were confirmed when Gabrielle disappeared on the ferry to France. Fleur had been angry, then, and several automobiles on board the ferry had very mysteriously caught fire. She had worked so hard to keep her sister safe during the second war -- for what? Nothing. She had no way to find her, and even less hope of surviving but anger still burned into the Veela, and Bill was satisfied. If she could still get angry, Bill thought, they still had a chance, and Fleur and the baby were all he had left.

Being a Weasley meant that they were hunted like dog, and it wasn't long before they were both bound, gagged, and returned to England. Fleur had put up a fight, burning several of the Death Eaters before they bested her, and Bill thought they had a real chance so long as she could still get angry. They were separated, of course, and he knew that they would torture him, he just hadn't counted on the method of torture.

The voice belonging to the hooded figure wasn't familiar at all, and the Death Eaters dragged Fleur into the room. They'd raped her and beat her, that much Bill could see, and his eyes flashed dangerously. He and Charlie were more alike than the Death Eaters knew. It wasn't just Gryffindor bravery that caused him to scream. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF OF HER! YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO HER, I SWEAR TO GOD--"

"Silence!"

The spell disarmed his tongue, and his binds were drawn tighter. Fleur, now hung by some unseen hook, was suspended directly in front of him. His own binds clamped onto Bill's long hair, jerking his head up to look at her still-beautiful, though badly beaten face. She shook her head almost imperceptibly when he tried to struggle again.

"Half-breeds and blood traitors breeding. How dare you taint Wizarding blood!"

Bill felt the icy fingers of fear down his spine. There was a terrible ripping sound followed by a short, sharp scream that Bill didn't recognise though he saw Fleur's mouth open and her face twist into a pained grimace. Her delicate pale features turned sickly, almost green. He felt hot tears pouring down his face, and he wanted to reach out for the child now lying face down on the ground, not moving or breathing. The same could be said for both Bill and Fleur.

Fight, Fleur. Get angry. Come on, baby. Don't give up yet. We can still get away.

But he knew the fire had gone out of her; he could see it in her cold eyes. He was just thankful she wouldn't have to suffer much longer.

Fic: Green

2008-01-03T20:54:15Z

Title: Green
Characters: Harry Potter.
Summary: The original post-apocalyptic piece I wrote that inspired my Padma post that inspired Kate's Seamus post that -- you get the idea. *snickersnort!* Anyway. Harry's been stripped of his magic, and is awaiting...
Rating: PG13 for character death

Of course, it was to be a public execution.

The Walk had been seventeen years in the making, and without his magic, there was no hope to walk away from this one.

He knew it. And despite this, his head was held high. It was, after all, his destiny.

Sometimes Harry remembered what it was like to use magic, the feel of wood in his hands. How his hand used to twitch when he'd utter a spell. All the phrases in Latin that he never bothered to translate, but somehow knew what they meant. He remembered the smell of potions. How most of his best potions still turned to soup. How much he hated the now-dead wizard who taught the class. He remembered half-moon glasses, bushy hair, freckles. He remembered orange eyes, bangled bracelets, white-blonde hair. He remembered buggy eyes and the way they made him feel. He remembered photographs that moved, and marble basins that swirled with iridescent wind. He remembered giant snakes and memories that lived.

His life would be remembered as the wound that wouldn't heal, wouldn't scab. His death would cauterise the wizarding world, they said. Hushed reporters from the Daily Prophet to The Quibbler were waiting in every corner; Quick Quills hovered in the air. The Boy Who Would Die would be studied.

He still had nightmares, but the scar he wore was nothing more than another reminder of a life reprobate. No family, all dead. No friends, all gone. He had outlived them all. It might have been the only thing he hadn't been prepared for, and he merely waited, slack and devoid, for the death sentence. This ersatz life was his waking nightmare.

The peregrination from cell to death only took one hour through the streets of London. He survived the catcalls and opprobrium as he always had, with his jaw set and a disdainful eye. Their brickbats rebounded off him, and the only time it stung was when the surviving members of his Army turned away from him. They looked hungry and lost, broken and tangled, and Harry couldn't stand the look of disappointment on their faces. He was a saviour who could no longer save. And maybe, he thought, he was never intended to save them.

The acid green quills fluttered madly upon seeing him. Only the most derelict dared to call to Harry, begging for his help. Their voices were immediately silenced in a rush of green coruscation, more bodies left in Harry's wake. He was not surprised to find the loss only hastened his steps to his fate. His bleak eyes memorised their faces, and he might be the only one to mourn them.

Like so many years ago, Harry refused to bow to Voldemort or the line of Death Eaters waiting in the centre of the square. He refused to cower and hide behind pretty gravestones. He refused to answer questions that made no difference in the end. His retorts were met with the familiar mirthless laugh that used to haunt his nightmares.

Then he was finally on his way to join Hermione and Ron, and there was no where else he'd rather be.

Fic: Post Apocalyptic Lavender Brown

2008-01-03T20:54:15Z

Characters: Lavender Brown, Elliott Chambers, Susan Bones (mentions of Oliver Wood, Simon Capper, Parvati Patil, as well as a whole bunch of name-dropping! YAY!)
Summary: After Seeing death one too many times, Lavender can't take it anymore.
Rating: PG13

Lavender Brown had long since outgrown any urge to stomp around, shouting at the top of her lungs that it just wasn't bloody fair. How had You-Know-Who bested Harry Potter? How had You-Know-Who even come back for the third time! It didn't really matter; all that Lavender knew was that they were gone. Most of her friends was gone.

Parvati had been one of the first, slipping away as silently as a breeze. She was one of the lucky ones. Padma followed in a hail of green light in her revenge. All of the forerunners to the battle were gone, and no one dared to openly mourn them -- there just wasn't time with all the ambushes -- but oh, late at night, huddled in a battered building, what was left of Dumbledore's Army and the Order of the Phoenix scattered into groups so that the Death Eaters couldn't find them, they found they still needed their comfort.

Lavender looked up at the sky needlessly. She knew the moon was full and fat, hanging high in the sky, and she let a daydream of Simon Capper wash over her. It was too late for him, even if he was still alive. But in her dreams, his eyes were still alive and laughing, his smile was bright, and he sang into a hairbrush unabashedly to some song about cauldrons that Lavender once knew all the lyrics to.

"Simon!" she called out with a smile, batting at his hands as he shoved the make-shift microphone under her nose. "Quit fucking around! We're in the middle of a war!"

Simon shook his head mysteriously, and the glow of the moon evaded her dreams mercilessly. Simon changed, right then and there in front of her into a snarling black wolf, and there was no cage to hold him. Except he didn't lunge, didn't attack, just stared at her and she could swear she saw the wolf crying before it turned and ran off into the darkness.

Lavender's feet decided to follow, and before she knew it, she was just outside the safety of the shattered building. Off in the distance, she heard howling and saw a sudden blast of light and fire, and her heart felt as though it had been literally ripped from her chest. She let out a wail that might possibly match Ginny Weasley's in anguish at the triple deaths of Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

Simon Capper was dead; she was certain of it.

There was a hand on her shoulder, and for one instant, she let herself believe that it was Oliver Wood's. She'd turn around to find him tucked away in the same hovel by happy coincidence -- just like three weeks ago. He pulled her to him roughly, holding onto her as tight as he could. They spent the next few hours trying to find some hope in each other. Oliver swore he'd never let her go as long as he lived.

And he didn't, even though "as long as he lived" was only four hours.

"No, no, no," she sobbed, and her fingernails dug deep into Elliot Chamber's wrists. He didn't flinch, not even when Lavender began to fight him, pounding her fists against his chest. She sank to her knees, taking Elliot with her.

"We have to get inside," he warned her, cutting across her sorrow and yanking her across the threshold. "They'll find us."

"I don't... I don't care. I don't want to See them all dying. Elliot, please make it stop!" Her shouting was beginning to draw the attention of the others. Whispered threats bounced right off Lavender. "I just want to die. I just want to die."

Lavender wasn't supposed to last this long; she should have been one of the first. One by one, everyone she'd ever cared about was stripped from her. To silence her, Elliot kissed her. He might have laughed, and she might have smacked him once upon a time, but it did the trick now. But she'd Seen it coming, and she welcomed it. It meant the end was near, and that was a relief.

One desperate, clingy encounter later, Elliot passed out. Lavender sat up with a start, knowing what she must do. Down the stairs and through the door, she found Susan Bones standing watch. She was always standing watch, and, smoothing a hand on Susan's tired cheeks, Lavender informed her that she would keep watch.

"Are you sure?" Susan relished the physical contact, even if it wasn't of the male persuasion. At this point, anything was better than nothing.

"Yes, definitely."

"Well, if you're not well enough..."

"You've been such a soldier, Susan. I don't know how you do it." It was a lie, but it was necessary. "I swear, I'm fine now."

Reluctantly, Susan switched places with the other witch.

With a sad smile, Lavender said, "I'll see you soon, Susan."

A second later, a high pitched whirring sound pierced their ears. It drew closer and closer until there was an explosion. Susan was catapulted against what was left of the door jamb, her back feeling near broken. She glanced up to the spot she had been to make sure that Lavender was all right, but there was only a hole in the wall.

Fic: Untitled

2008-01-03T20:54:14Z

Title: Untitled
Characters: Merope Gaunt
Summary: I wrote this for a gen fic-a-thon. It was this or something about Molly Weasley, and I was draaaawn to Merope because she is SUCH a tragic figure.
Rating: PG

UNTITLED

O N E
She has never been beautiful, but she has always known that. She knows that the only thing she truly has to offer is undying love and a family heirloom, a heritage. Her awareness is the reason she has taken to carrying the love potion in her pocket at all times. Sometimes, when she's only just given Tom the potion, he looks at her in a way that breaks her heart. She knows that he would never have looked at her twice without the potion, but when he takes her in his arms, Merope forgets all about that.

The magic makes it real, and she can pretend. She is good at pretending, as she has been hiding for many years -- from her father, from her brother, from her peers, from the rest of Little Hangleton. Tom just gives her something to look forward to at the end of the day, and she works so hard to make him happy so that one day, when she stops giving him the potion, he might pity her for what she’s done to him. She’d always been told that pity was worse than no emotion at all, but Merope had never disagreed so much in her life.

Every day, she resolves to wean him from the potion, and every day, she finds a million more things about him that she loves so dearly that she can’t bring herself to do it. She’s hopelessly addicted to the love she sees in his eyes.

T W O

If she’s carrying his child, he can’t turn her away. He is too honourable, too noble to do such a thing. She is certain of it. She has watched him since he was young, and he could not have been faking it all this time.

Merope has obviously been planning this for a while.

It has been two months since her time, and Tom has slowly been taking less and less potion. Tonight marks twenty-four hours since his last dosing, and he has been resting in a sort of haze. When he wakes, she knows that she will have to explain. She has practiced over and over again, but never in front of a mirror. This one thing has taken her more courage than she’s ever had.

T H R E E

She lies to herself often. She had been slipping him potions ever since her brother and father were sent to Azkaban, and, while she tried to live as a Muggle, she hadn’t truly succeeded. Behind his back, she used Heating Charms to warm his tea perfectly. She used dragon dung for fertilizer to make certain the plants grew just so. She mixed strange concoctions to counter his headaches and fatigue, tempered to keep the unnatural taste at bay and then slipped into his evening tea.

It was the magic, the heritage that drove Tom away. It was betrayal by potion, by pretending to be something she is not, that really drove him away. He never saw the real her, right? But maybe… Maybe it was really because she wasn’t living completely as a Muggle?

But she can’t be a witch without him, knowing what she’s done. She knows that one way or another, she is doomed, and maybe that’s what she’d been praying for all along.

F O U R

The streets of London are no place for a girl in 1926. It’s no place for a great deal of people, it would seem, with the strikes all across the London. Things and people that Merope had never heard of are on strike, and there are many violent clashes. The streets are littered with victims of all sorts.

The street vendors are cautious these days. Merope watches the prettier of the desolate, most of whom are smiled at as they pass. Never mind the fact that most of them have quicker hands than a magician; they’ve already stolen an apple or bread without the caretaker even noticing.

With her magic fizzling, Merope can barely keep herself standing, let alone attempt to procure anything. It's not that she's too noble to try; it's her contempt for the beautiful that keeps her from doing so. In her early days of living on the streets, a down-on-her-luck vaudevillian actress by the name of Victoria minded Merope because she felt sorry for her. But that soon came to an end when she caught Merope stealing from her. It was her beauty that Merope despised and she didn't feel any remorse about taking from her.

However, Merope is not nearly as lucky with the street vendors. They narrow their eyes at the ugly girl, watching her every movement, but she never steals from them. Instead, now, she takes handouts from people who pity the girl with the ever-growing bulge. She overhears the more financially generous talking as they walk away.

‘Must have been dark when she was knocked up. It’s no wonder she’s living on the streets.’

Don’t listen to them. I may be ugly, but your father… He has such good genes, Tom, Merope tells the child in her womb. She’s already decided on a name, and he will be more brilliant than she could ever have dreamed. No child of Tom Riddle’s could be anything less than exceptional.

Her magic disappears quickly. She can still see the Leaky Cauldron. She can still get into Diagon Alley, and when she does, people know who she is. There are former Hogwarts students there who recognize her, professors who smile and nod without looking her in the eye.

It has been months since Tom left her, and she cannot go to Little Hangleton, not with Tom and Morfin there. If her brother knew what state she was in, he’d likely go to Riddle Manor and destroy every single last one of them, and Merope cannot stand the thought. If anything happened to Tom, she might go mad.

Borgin and Burkes is dodgy, at best, but that shoppe is the only place she would consider selling to. The necklace has been with her for so long, and she has never once doubted its authenticity. However, Merope despises her Wizarding heritage. Every time she sees it around her neck, it reminds her of what she is, and what she can never be. She is not clueless, however, when he only offers her 10 galleons for the family heirloom. Merope chalks it up to just another disappointment in a long line of disappointments.

F I V E

Merope has never been beautiful, but she has created beauty. She knows that the baby will grow up to be handsome, talented, and clever. All things that she had never been. He has his father’s perfect skin and intense eyes, and if the gods were ever tempted to be kind to Merope Gaunt, her son would have a long and happy life, making his mark in the world.

Mrs Cole, the skinny woman who invited her in off the steps of the orphanage, is hovering over her. By her anxious expression, Merope knows that she is not much longer for this world. Her entire life has led to this moment, her precious son. Her time is nearly up, and, at last, she is proud of something that she has done. There is nothing more that Merope has to contribute.

Perhaps Merope has known ever since the day she decided to stop giving Tom the potion that it would all culminate in this moment. But everything would be all right, she decided, Tom Marvolo Riddle would change the face of the Wizarding World.

Fic: Switch

2008-01-03T20:54:14Z

Title: Switch
Characters: Padma Patil, Theodore Nott, various other Slytherins
Summary: Blame Whit. This is another older fic, with the prompt: What if your character had been in another House? At the time, all the Slytherins were suffering due to their involvement in the Red Death group, and this was Padma involved.
Rating:

Padma Patil was not impressed.

As interruptions went, there were worse ways to be frozen than standing triumphantly over a bleeding, silently screaming Ernie Macmillan.

"Pathetic waste of a pureblood!" she'd spat just seconds before Dumbledore rendered her Cruciatus Curse null. Macmillan brandished his wand like an amateur, like a Muggle magician performing a show, and because of it, he'd wasted precious seconds. Seconds that Padma exploited. She watched his body crumple, limbs contract, muscles twitch with only mild fascination.

His screams were only minutely satisfactory. Not one member of the Red Death group noticed her victory; most of them were cowering to Potter's band of miscreants. Theodore Nott truckled beneath a Hufflepuff (a Hufflepuff, for Salazar's sake!), Draco Malfoy turned in the air at Potter's command (no big surprise there; Malfoy was less than capable on his best days), Pansy Parkinson hid under a table (did she ever really do anything other than play dress up?).

The Dark Lord was using them in the least productive manner. Surely, the attacks would have been best traced only to murmured voices and shadows. Letting Dumbledore and Potter know exactly who they were seemed, well, brainless, and brainless was not something Padma Patil did well.

If there was one thing that Padma knew, it was how to disentangle herself from scandal. However, this would take artifice. Finesse was something that only Theodore Nott (despite his myriad other weaknesses) could handle. And that meant convincing him. Convincing him meant turning him away from Draco Malfoy and most of the other Slytherins.

When Padma was convinced of her ratiocination, there was no deterring her. Your logic would turn quickly in the face of her arguments. One look at the sureness on her face had changed many a Slytherin's mind.

Of course, Theodore Nott would prove difficult; he always did.

"Draco wouldn't know a thestral's arse from his own," she told him, a grand smirk on her lips. If there was one thing she enjoyed more than logic, it was ripping Malfoy to shreds. "His leadership is counter-productive. He's never had to work very hard at his hypocrisy, and I'm afraid it's time for new direction."

Theodore quirked a lazy brow at her. He relaxed, stretching his legs, fingers lightly tapping the arms of his chair. "Do go on, dear Padma. I'm rather interested in this new management."

"Subterfuge should only be used when the truth cannot be exploited, and I believe - " Two words never meant so much as 'I believe' coming from Padma's lips " - the truth is more dangerous to Potter than any distortion Draco could manage. I think we should continue with the Dark Lord's training, little by little. This time, we contain it, only vaguely keeping it secret. The two of us could have Slytherin house whipped into shape in no time."

"But how is the question, Padma. You're not telling me anything I haven't already thought myself."

Blunt as usual, Theodore, Padma thought. The smirk curled into her cheek, making the smallest dimple noticeable.

"We discredit Draco, use his weaknesses. He can't deny them, considering I, as well as others, have much proof of his faults. Potter wouldn't dream of assisting him. If Draco turns on us, Potter would think it was a plot. Draco will have no where to go, but back into OUR fold."

"I see several flaws in your plan, Padma. The first is quite obvious: Draco has no credit. Among the Slytherins, sure, his name means something. His father is one of the Dark Lord's Right-Hand me-"

Padma silenced him, a single finger pressed against his lips. As she spoke, her gaze shifted from her finger to his lips, the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that one strand of hair that had fallen in his eye. "Shhh. His father is not the Dark Lord's only most trusted Death Eater."

She watched as his face flushed, his hand reaching up to shove hers away. Her smirk turned angelic, canine digging into her bottom lip. "Oh, dear. I've embarrassed you, haven't I?"

He merely smiled that bland smile of his, watching her carefully, his colouring returning. She heaved a sigh, looking positively stricken. "I've forgotten that you don't approve of such handling."

"You're playing in the dirt, Padma. Have you forgotten how compulsive I am?" He was teasing her; that was always a good sign.

"Oh, I assure you that my hands will remain quite clean. And yours, too."

This got his attention. Padma halfway suspected that Theodore didn't want his hands soiled, and not for sanitary reasons. Most of the time, his nose was buried in a book. While she couldn't find fault in that, something always nagged at her. Something almost... Muggle at times. If she could just get proof, Theodore would be wrapped around her finger.

"Unfortunately for poor Draco Malfoy, we'll need chicanery. Most of the students are already aware of the level of imbecile he is, so we have no choice but to inject a bit of old-fashioned lies into it. Oh, this will take some time; after all, well-planned deceit isn't something you can expect to yield overnight."

Theodore looked skeptical, unwilling to damage the thin thread of alliance between Malfoy and Nott. After all, the children of criminals most often banded together in similar times.

"I realize that you have some sort of bond with Draco, but he's out-survived his uses. He's pushed Slytherin House to a precipice, and if someone capable does not take control, we will fail." She paused only for a moment, dropping all sweetness and smiles. "Failure is not an option."

Now that she had his attention (and she was quite sure by the intensity in his eyes), Padma's feminine wiles would have to take control. She loathed this part only a little, and only when Theodore was the one who resisted. She leaned forward, propping her head up with the heel of her hand. Her voice seemed to drop a register, breathy and whispered. "You're not the only one, Theodore, who thinks the Dark Lord acted impulsively. I must confess I thought it too soon... too naked."

At the words, his thin fingers crushed the bones in her wrists, and she was pulled to her feet.

Through a corridor. Up and down stairs. Spiraling and double backing. The Slytherin dorm rooms could only be reached through this maze, and Padma was delighted when he turns right. This led to the boys' dormitories, as she was well aware of. Blaise Zabini could be persuaded quite easily.

The room was cold, almost sterile, save Crabbe and Goyle's dominions. When he dropped her hand suddenly, she was not at all surprised. She'd anticipated his insistence on privacy. More than anticipated, she counted on it. Her skin was flush with knowledge: he'd let a weakness slip.

"How shall we consummate this plan?" He didn't blush as he spoke, and her eyes narrowed. She has never heard him speak this way, and it's only a little disconcerting. To her credit, Padma didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, she strode across the room toward him, moving her hips in wide arcs. It's a calculated move, and she is certain he's aware of it.

"Interesting choice of words, darling Theodore." Padma's voice was as heavy with innuendo as her eyelids as she stepped up to him. Hands slid up his chest, lips hovered near his.

And just as suddenly, her hands were gone. His face only changed for the smallest of split seconds, and then he was unreadable once more.

"I've always been verbose, and you've always been more direct than you are right now. What are you suggesting, Padma?" His voice had dropped call pretense, and he was eyeing her ferally.

Only mildly put off, Padma straightened, a determined look upon her face. She moved to Theodore's bed, sitting on the edge and leaning back on her elbows. "I'm suggesting our own alliance, one that will result in more than just alleviating Draco Malfoy from his prestigious position. I'm suggesting that you and I learn to lean on each other, quite literally at times. You and I are indisputably the most intelligent in Slytherin House - and before you say anything, I'm aware we're not highly considered for our intelligence - not to mention most of this school. We're cunning because we use it against others, and I think it's high time that we stop using it against each other."

When she was finished, she stared at him, unblinking. Some little voice in the back of her head nagged her, told her that he'd never go for it, but she shoved that down quickly. There'd be time to think about that later.

He held his silence for a full ten minutes, and Padma knew he was letting her stew, letting it writhe inside her until she pushed him. But she merely watched him, expressionless. It would have been smart given circumstances, but Padma Patil was a very patient witch, and so her gaze never broke from his face.

"I accept," Theodore replied, but not without some hesitation. Padma could see the wheels in his head turning round. Silly things, really, but she respected him for it.

She held out her hand, waiting as he was forced to cross the room to her. When that delicate hand wrapped around hers, she gave it a yank, pulling him down to her, hot breath on his lips, hair tickling her forehead. "You remember the old adage, don't you? Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. I think we're about to get as close as enemies can get."

Fic: More

2008-01-03T20:54:13Z

Title: More
Characters: Lavender Brown, Padma Patil
Summary: andreamb asked for this a while ago, and I think there's just not enough femmeslash in this world. For real.
Rating: PG13

"...Roger Davies is downstairs, Padma."

Momentarily distracted, Padma glanced up from her book, The Merlin Code. Blinking rather languidly, she stretched on her bed, propping her elbow up. Tugging her long braid over her shoulder, she finally said, "…so?"

"Your mum and dad were talking about his… prospects. How old fashioned can they get?" Lavender asked, rolling her eyes and throwing herself down on the bed in front of Padma. Luckily, she had been expecting this and pulled her book out from under the Gryffindor in the nick of time.

"Is that why you went trouncing down the stairs like a herd of hippogriffs trampling a million Malfoys?" came Padma's brusque reply.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Well, they're Indian, Lavender. After all these years, you should know how old fashioned they can be. Don't you remember the time they tied Parvati's legs to the -"

"No, the other question; the unspoken one." Lavender's legs were crossed at the ankles, swinging from side to side as the girl splayed out on her stomach on Padma's bed.

"I'm sorry; I don't speak Witch Weekly. You'll have to be more specific." The Ravenclaw knew where this was going. She'd known the moment Lavender opened her pretty mouth and uttered the words: Roger Davies. Roger was the last person Padma wanted to explain about.

"It sounded like he was asking your parents for your hand in marriage or something. You're not telling us something without… telling us something, are you? You're not marrying Roger Davies, are you?" There were stars in Lavender's eyes, the far away, day-dreaming look on her face as she imagined Padma's wedding, romantic holidays, and, of course, one of Roger's good looking cousin's "or Merlin! Brother!) sweeping Lavender off her feet.

Quickly squashing those dreams, Padma dismissed it, "Calm down. He's only just asked me out on one date, that's all."

In a flail of arms and legs, Lavender was on her knees in front of Padma, who had scooted so far back on her bed that she was squished between Lavender and the head board. She pressed her feet against the other girl's knees to keep her at a distance. There was no telling what could happen if Lavender got riled up.

"MERLIN, PADMA PREMALA PATIL! YOU DIDN'T TELL ME THAT ROGER DAVIES ASKED YOU OUT! ROGER DAVIES! THIS IS BRILLIANT! "

Padma winced, slapping her hands to her ears. "This is why I didn't tell you," she replied loudly, blinking and narrowing her eyes. Lavender looked momentarily hurt, and Padma prayed the girl wouldn't cry. She always cried so easily. "I knew you'd get like this!"

Then, "You're going to snog Roger Davies, you know," Lavender chimed in smugly, grinning from ear to ear. She pulled herself next to Padma at the head of her bed and slid her arm around her waist. "Do you even know how to snog? Properly, and not from books, I mean."

"Of course, I do," Padma snapped, folding her arms across her chest like a petulant child. She frowned darkly, jaw twitching slightly. Padma could hear Lavender rolling her eyes, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Lavender was watching her intently. Shifting nervously, she barked, "What are you looking at? Stop looking at me like that!"

Lavender only grinned, leaning against Padma's side, looking up flirtatiously and batting her eyelashes. Grimacing, the darker girl pushed away from the blonde, scooting along the bed to the foot.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Come on," Lavender replied, her pointer now daintily sliding into the corner of her mouth. Padma could see her tongue roll lazily around the tip, and her mind raced at what Lavender exactly wanted her to come on. "It's not that bad. Vati and I have practiced."

Padma's eyes bulged, her jaw going slack. Then a moue of disgust slammed into her face. She pulled her knees to her chest. A deadpan voice answered. "Are you mad?"

Lavender laughed them, crawling to the other side of the bed. Padma leaned back, trying to put as much distance between her and Lavender. Her face was hovering too close to Padma's.

"Just close your eyes, and pretend I'm Roger."

"You smell like a flower garden; Roger does not smell like a flower garden."

"Oh for Merlin's sake, plug your nose then!"

"This is utterly ridiculous! I'm not going to kiss you, let alone snog you!" Padma rolled her eyes, not realizing that Lavender would take that momentarily lapse of eye contact to close the distance between them.

And suddenly, Padma could taste strawberries. She stared up at the ceiling, watching the little swirls of paint, even though her lips puckered against Lavender's slightly. She did not pull away either.

Then her eyes closed, and Lavender's lips were so soft and warm. Images of Parvati and Lavender doing this in Parvati's bedroom fluttered into Padma's mind, and she shook her head, breaking the peck.

"That wasn't so bad, Padma." Lavender was grinning incorrigibly. Her eyes were squinty, and her face looked rather blurry this close up. "Again."

With some hesitancy, Padma leaned down, pressing her lips firmly against Lavender's, then it was Lavender's turn to shake her head. "Like this, Padma darling."

The blonde pulled back just enough so Padma could watch. Her eyelids practically glided closed, her pink lips puckering and parting slightly.

"See? Now it's your turn."

Padma gave her a skeptical look. There was no way she could pull that off. She didn't even have pink lips or lip gloss or… She shut her eyes, inclining her chin only the slightest bit upward. It was easy for her mouth to open, given the rather nervous way her lips were trembling. When she swallowed, she licked her lips. Lavender giggled.

"Very good, Padma. You're a fast learner! Do it again," she instructed. Padma really hoped she got a gold star later. Quite literally.

Doing as she was told, Padma felt much more relaxed, not having to have any contact with Lavender's mouth. But still... something wasn't right. Not in her gut anyway. Her throat had an odd bulge. Her lips parted again, eyebrows raising only the slightest tick.

She could hear Lavender shifting on the bed, drawing nearer. It was slow, and it sent a shot of impatient through her spine. If she was going to teach Padma how to do this, she'd better not make her wait. Her lip curled slightly in an impetuous smirk.

Lavender's mouth was open this time, and it was wetter than before. The girl massaged her lips against Padma's, alternating between parting her lips and compressing them with Padma's.

And she wasn't stopping.

Lavender continued. Quickening the pace. Slowing them down. Her long fingernails trailed along Padma's cheek bones down to her throat, which made Padma shiver, shoulders shrugged from side to side.

"Now," Lavender breathed into Padma's open mouth. Opening her eyes, Padma leaned her forehead against the other girl's quite out of breath. She only nodded, waiting for Lavender's further instruction. No wonder I've caught all those students in the Astronomy Tower… "This will seem weird after first, darling. Don't worry, it's always weird the first time you snog a new person. You'll get used to it."

If she hadn't been anxious before, Padma was definitely nervous now. She fidgeted with her robes, fingers twisting around the fabric. Before Padma could finish her thought, Lavender's lips were pressing against hers again, more insistent, more demanding than before.

And then there was something warm and wet on Padma's lips. It was soft, but there was something odd about the way it felt that a slow moving shudder crawled up Padma's spine. It spiraled when Padma felt her own tongue working to meet Lavender's.

Their lips continued to move, pressing and demanding. Their tongues circled, dueled, fought for control. Lavender slid her arm around Padma's waist, pulling her closer and closer until Padma could feel the girl's breasts against her own. And for some reason, Padma groaned at the friction of Lavender's hand gripping her upper thigh. Lavender made an appreciative noise and rewarded her with a thumb against Padma's nipple through her clothing. Padma was definitely starting to enjoy this, and she thought it might actually be the gold star she was hoping for.

Even if it was Lavender.

Padma's hands tentatively reached out, flexing at Lavender's waist as if she didn't know what to do with them. And she really didn't. She always assumed that it would be instinctual, and, while her instincts were telling her to hold onto Lavender's waist, she wasn't certain she should. Lavender seemed to understand and pulled her hand away from Padma's breast to lead Padma's hands to her waist.

And all the while, they were still kissing. Growing more confident, Padma moved forward, forcing Lavender to shrink in front of her a little so that Padma was now the dominant one. Lavender groaned into Padma's mouth, which sent Padma's senses reeling. Her fingers curled around Lavender's hip, pulling her closer, demanding.

Suddenly, Lavender was up and off the bed. Padma was left, eyes closed, panting. Her lips were pink and swollen. When she opened her eyes, she watched Lavender slipping out of the room. Dumbfounded and frustrated, Padma gawked.

"First rule of kissing, Padma… Always leave them wanting more." She smiled deviously and closed Padma's door.

Fic: Judas (Padma Patil/Theodore Nott)

2008-01-03T20:54:12Z

Title: Judas
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Padma Patil, Theodore Nott
Word Count 1031
Author's Note: alsoknownas gave me a plot bunny. Actually, she gave me quite a few, and I finished two of them. This one is the more WTF of the two. Idea: Take your character and put them in a Post Apocalyptic World. Ie., Voldemort wins. Well, in a post apocalyptic world, Harry would most likely be dead, or stripped of his powers (and GAH, the PLOT BUNNIES FOR THAT), so I took Padma and did this:

The raids were methodical and exacting. By now, Padma knew what to expect. The house in Liverpool had been foraged through so many times that she'd taken to organizing it in the most efficient manner for them. The less time the Light Detectors spent in her home, the better. They always trifled through her books.

With her legs tucked beneath her, Padma glanced over the top of the book balancing in her lap, expressionless. It was better when one didn't show them the slightest bit worried. The hooded figures did their job, and she, certainly, understood how these things worked; after all, she'd seen the paperwork. Hell, she'd filed it. That didn't stop the Light Detectors from traipsing into her home once a month.

In the beginning, there had been nervousness. There had never been anything to hide, but those invasions would last for days. Her house had been left in shambles. It was those times when she was most grateful that she was a pureblood whose magic had not been stripped away.

It also helped that sympathy was not something that Padma Patil gave anymore.

Sure, it was hard for a moment when Parvati had been dragged away from her, kicking and screaming against the Dementors until she'd slacked in their grasp, submitting to poisonous thoughts and horrified memories. One would have thought the creatures had overcome Padma as well.

But they had, in a way, for it was Padma who turned her own sister in. It was an agreement she'd made with an old friend. He'd spare her from being experimented on, if she turned in bigger fish than the witch who'd created some of the brutal curses and hexes that His Death Eaters were suffering from. One by one, Potter's allies were mysteriously taken from their Unplottable locations.

She'd become something of a war hero or a cautionary tale, depending on one's skewed version of events. Padma would just say she was just too greedy, too tired, too scared, too angry to have committed to a side. That was the one thing about Ravenclaws; wit and learning wasn't a personality trait. Not like all the rest of the Houses.

War was waste. The sooner it was over, the better, and that was her motto.

Waste was the filth in Diagon Alley these days. Filth was the broken Light forces, wading in their own stink. They could have risen above it, saved a little of their pride, but not one of them thought that turning their backside on the Light was a suitable way of life. Padma thought it was Elysium.

Once she'd fallen into lassitude, Theodore Nott had proved himself to be quite the ally.

She never read that book anymore. It was the only book in the house she might have been worried about, if she didn't have the proper paperwork for it. Theodore had made sure of that. A compendium of Shakespeare's written works had no place in a pureblood's home, but considering his kindness for it, he'd secured authorization. That coupled with his inscription (and signature) fastened her safety.

A lazy twist of her wand brought the paperwork into her hands. The Light Detectors were so predictable. Their alert sparks went off monthly. The same book, the same outcome, the same embarrassed muttering. Pardon me, Miss Patil, we didn't know you were intimate with Nott.

"I wouldn't call it intimate; I'd call it consorting."

No, Padma hadn't made sense in a long time, but it was for the best really. No one was in their right mind anymore. When ennui failed her, she always had dogma to steady her. Routines made her (non)life possible. Every day, it was the same: wake, work, sleep.

Oh, and she reread the Dark Lord's credenda. It was interesting, the manner of words He chose, and so she found herself returning to it over and over again. That was always when Theodore would appear.

Every night, it was the same, like clockwork. A loud Crack! always signaled his arrival, of course. No member of His Glitterati ever really sparkled, not when it counted anyway. They all had that strange glassy-eyed stare until the rush of green blitz seemed to make them come alive, and only then.

His face was always as vanilla as her shampoo. She wasn't fooled by his condition; it always started the same. Her soft words were contrasted by her clipped tones; his affections seemingly went undermined by the look in his eye. It was when she wrapped whispers around the Dark Lord's words that he seemed alive.

'It's only in your darkest hour, that you dream of Death. I have Overcome.'

And when Padma spoke the words, she sounded strangely dull, not at all like her former self. She stared at Theodore placidly until he dropped to his knees. Every time he'd appear, she knew another one of her former friends was dead. She also knew that Theodore had been the one dispatched to do it.

He didn't usually prostrate himself.

"Who was it this time?"

When there was no answer, Padma slowly sank to her knees. For the first time in years, Padma felt real fear. Her fingers went to his shoulder. He felt cold to the touch; he must have been up north. Up north meant…

"You didn't…"

There was still no reply, and that sinking feeling magnified. North meant Azkaban. Azkaban meant…

Parvati.

When he looked back up at her, his eyes were red. There was emotion there that hadn't been there in years. It was odd to her that he was looking at her so peculiarly. And when he put his arms around her, she felt him shuddering. Her eyes darted to the encyclopedia-sized book on the shelf.

Unsurprisingly, once the fear was gone, Padma couldn't feel anything.

She stiffened then, unlocking his embrace. She lifted his chin, forcing him to look at her again. Padma gave him a calm, calculating look. It was the same look she gave him she handed him the morning paperwork or his tea or gave him the location of another one of her former cohorts.

"Well, there's not much Light left, is there? I've done my job well."

Fic: Directions

2008-01-03T20:54:12Z

Title: Directions
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Padma Patil, Theodore Nott
Word Count: 726
Summary: It's seventh year, Ancient Runes class. Theodore and Padma get paired up together. Slice of life from the Alternative Universe that Whit and I had been working on. Predominantly set around the end of Mask of the Red Death.
Rating: PG

Ancient Runes was her second favourite class. The level of difficulty increased practically from moment to moment, but she found that she loved the challenge. Professor Bifrost's animated lessons encouraged her.

By the end of seventh year, they'd managed to become experts it seemed. And to test them, they were paired with a new partner, one they'd never been matched with during lessons before.

Padma's stomach twisted and turned; she'd been coupled with Theodore Nott.

Theodore had always been a bit of a puzzle, an enigma. The last year had found him turning to the side of Light, evening supplying Harry Potter with information on the remaining Red Death members' plotting. In her heart, Padma hoped against hope that it wasn't a farce, that Theodore's general goodness had overtaken him. Little by little, she watched how he smiled more, how he no longer flinched quite as often when she touched him.

They sat on opposite sides of the double desk, close enough to know the other was there, even smell the other's scent, but not close enough to look conspicuous.

Or so they thought.

In her nervousness not to appear too excited, her quill suddenly snapped, ink spilling onto her fingers. Her hand dipped beneath the table, toward her robe pocket, to retrieve her wand to clean up after herself.

Her fingers brushed other fingers, fingers that weren't her own.

Her hand froze beneath the desk, afraid that she might be imagining it. But the pads of Theodore's fingers were tracing her knuckles, her nails, the veins on the back of her hand. She cast a sideways glance at him, but he was staring ahead at Professor Bifrost, seemingly attentive, that his hand was not under the table sending shivers up her spine. There was, however, a mischievous glint to his eyes.

Padma sucked in a sharp breath, eyebrows raised, a curiously shocked look on her face. She held her breath then, turning her hand over so that his fingers traced the lines on her palm.

Evidently, this was the wrong thing to do, for Padma's hand began to tremble, her fingers curling slightly with his gentle touch. He threaded his fingers through hers, and it seemed so familiar and so new. Overcome with his tenderness, her eyes closed and she began to imagine.

They were alone by Rhonda the Riotous. She was waiting for him in the space between Rhonda's shield and her sturdy, stone body. He didn't hesitate in the least, stepping up in front of her. His body caged her between him and the statue. He leaned over her. She could smell the intoxicating scent of their combined affection. His hands were soft at her waist, then her hips… moving upward slowly. She tilted her lips up toward his. They were hovering so close to hers, and she ached to feel them pressed against hers. He leaned down once more-

"And that's all there is to Thor's hidden alphabet! It will be on your N.E.W.T.s!" Professor Bifrost clasped his hands in front of his face with a loud clap, startling Theodore and ruining the moment.

The moment his hand left hers, she felt cold and an odd sense of foreboding. She suddenly felt as though this was the last real moment she'd have with Theodore, the last chance she would ever have. Classes would be over in a week, exams finished within two. She might never see him again, and there was an unsettling feeling crawling all over her. Theodore stood then, casting a shy glance at her.

Draco Malfoy walked by, slapping him on the back with a toothy, predatory grin. Then he dragged his gaze down to Padma curiously. Both of Draco's eyebrows waggled upwards twice before he smirked to Theodore again.

It wasn't until that moment that Padma knew exactly what a dangerous game they were playing. She gave a sharp look at Theodore, noticing exactly how pale he'd become at the exchange. She'd have to walk away from this, and she wasn't sure she could be that strong, that brave. That was Parvati's duty.

But after they all left Hogwarts two weeks later, Voldemort paid Theodore Nott a very well known visit. Padma no longer had to worry about her own strength; Theodore was stronger than she could ever hope to be. He never looked in her direction again.

Ficlet: Vivid

2008-01-03T20:54:10Z

Title: Vivid
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley (mention of Ron Weasley)
Word Count: 604
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley, Voldemort, etc. I wish I did, though.
Notes: for r_becca's H/G ficlet challenge, I had chosen the word: vivid.
Summary: It's dark. Voldemort has won, and Harry muses over his one major regret, and what became his downfall.
Rating: PG13

VIVID

Harry had such clear, life-like memories of his friends long after the war was over, and they were dead. None were quite as vivid as the images of Ginny Weasley. Of course, he often mused, how those recollections could not be vivid; the colour of her hair alone invited immortalization. It reminded him of all the blood on his hands.

With a small frown, Harry pushed off the floor of his cell. His feet scuffed the dirty stone floor; his left leg dragged behind him for it had been damaged in the final battle in the heart of London. The tourist season made Oxford Street an unbearable vision when the Death Eaters attacked.

Harry had taken Ginny to the shops in an attempt to show her Muggle sights. They’d held hands, and Harry had gotten the courage to finally kiss her. In retrospect, he was glad to have gotten the chance, but every now and then, he wondered if he hadn’t given into his whims, if he hadn’t let his desire for a normal life get the best of him… would Ginny still be alive?

In his head, she was eternally young, a perpetual cherub. She had never been particularly beautiful, but she had a carriage all her own that made her stand out. The freckles on her nose were too prominent, her nose a little too upturned, and her eyes a little too closely set. Something in the combination turned Harry’s head in his seventh year, and he’d finally let Ron talk him into it.

You’re the only person worthy enough to date my sister, Ron had said.

Worthy enough for what? Getting her killed? When Harry replayed the conversation in his head, he always heard this reply over and over again. His internal voice was always strangely willful and bitter. His tone, more than his words, betrayed his thoughts on the witch. She stood out, and she had more in common with him than anyone else; Harry could appreciate that.

And he had gotten her killed.

At the bars of his Azkaban cell, he stared out with old hurt in his eyes, old failures. But Ginny… Ginny was his paramount failure. He’d led her straight into the snake’s nest, knowing that anyone near him was vulnerable. But his seventeen-year old heart (and hormones) wouldn’t let him be, wouldn’t let them stagnate.

There were definite flashbacks inherent; things that he could not forget. He wanted to, more than anything in the world, but the Dementors outside his door refused to let him. It seemed to burn the memories onto the backs of his eyelids, brand them into his frontal lobe.

But Harry refused to cry; he did not deserve the relief, he thought. He could still hear Ginny’s screams as her body was lit under the Cruciatus Curse, could see her writhing. He could not triumph when everyone he loved was stripped from him, and he did not want to fight for a world that did not want him there.

He was paralyzed not only with a Binding spell, but his own impotence. He could not save everyone. In fact, he was sure that he could not help anyone, and that was what led him to turn himself in to Voldemort. To give up completely.

Harry sat in his cell these last few days, waiting for retribution. Every day that passed, he felt it slipping through his fingers, that Voldemort had something he wanted from Harry still. But he didn’t care. All of his purpose, his determination died with the red-haired girl, and he lived only in his vivid memories of her.

Ficlet: Narcissa Malfoy - Third Time's the Charm

2008-01-03T20:52:53Z

Title: Third Time's the Charm
Characters: Narcissa Black (with appearances by Lucius, Druella, Evadne Malfoy, and Regulus)
Summary: Dull and detached Narcissa Malfoy during and after her third miscarriage.
Rating: Let's say PG13 due to the imagery, even if it's mild.

This is the third miscarriage since the death of their first child. Each time she sees the blood, she never thinks about the expensive rugs or the silk robes she's wearing. She never thinks about what they'll say about her, but what he'll say. She thinks that he regrets marrying her, and she's certain that he is not the only one.

The blood that flows in her veins might have gotten her foot in the door, but it was Narcissa's personality that pushed it wide open. Narcissa integrated herself into the Malfoy family rather well. She knows exactly what topics are taboo for a woman of her station to speak on with his father. She enjoys shopping trips and social planning with his mother. Narcissa is as much a part of the family as their long dead relatives upon the walls.

But the blood in her veins is weak, and it drains life from her as much as it kills her unborn child. Narcissa Malfoy will never be the same witch again. Her smile is a rarity these days, and though she never speaks of it, her carriage recedes, and the disappointment reads as anger and disgust.

This time, she manages to her bathroom, but once she's there, she doesn't know what to do with herself. Dobby cleans the mess the best he can, but it's never good enough. Lady Malfoy can never get rid of that damned spot, and Dobby knows that he's in for a serious beating when the master gets his bearings. Still it's nothing compared to the mental berating Narcissa gives herself as she sinks to the floor.

Another house elf fetches Lucius who looks more terrified than angry with Narcissa. Merlin bless him, Narcissa thinks dully to herself, allowing herself to be smothered by his arms. He apparates them to St. Mungo's where she has a private room, with a private healer, and the only visitor she allows is Regulus, and that is simply because even while she sees that his heart is breaking for her, he always tells her funny stories from when they were younger.

Even when she returns home, she's not really there. She ambles around Malfoy Manor, sometimes aimlessly, and spends days in her old sitting room at the Black family home staring out of the window. Her mother sidesteps her, and it's clear that Narcissa is no longer the apple of her mother's eye. It won't be long before Druella asks, "Where are my precious grandchildren? I can't go on forever without them!" Narcissa always bites her tongue ("Maybe you shouldn't have pressured me to be the thinnest; Andromeda's child is alive and well."), smiles vapidly, and tells her that they'll try again in a few months.

And they will.

In the back of her mind, she wonders how much blood will she have to spill for the family, and the answer is always the same: all of it. She's sure that it won't be long before Lucius's terror does turn to anger, but until then, she prays that she will die instead of having to suffer another miscarriage. After all, what good is she if she can't even produce an heir?

The news is whispered in pureblood circles, but never within earshot. The last person who suggested to Lucius Malfoy that he go outside of his marriage for an heir suspiciously disappeared with a Dark Mark hovering above his house.